


Laurelairë

by Tyelperintal



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Can be read as Gen if you accept Annatar is weird about personal space, Celeborn is not portrayed positively, Celebrimbor Has Issues, Elf Politics, Elves are Dicks, Gen, Gratuitous expensive fabric references, Guest appearances from Finrod and Huan in a flashback, Gwaith-i-Mírdain OCs, M/M, No one listens to Galadriel, canon-derived House of Finwë melancholia, even though they should
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyelperintal/pseuds/Tyelperintal
Summary: Laurelairë (n.): a golden poem.Annatar still laughed, a sound like wind chimes on a day with blue skies and a gentle breeze. “It would take some bravery to enter the city of the famed jewelsmiths and offer them more treasures. If I offered you lesser crafts, you would rebuke me; if I offered you greater crafts according to my ability, you would see it for an insult. Such is not my intention, and the gift I offer is different in nature.”In which guests come and go from Ost-in-Edhil, Celebrimbor does not want to be Lord, and the Sons of Fëanor still cast a shadow over the Noldor.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Galadriel | Artanis, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Sauron | Mairon, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 19
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

The problem with Lord Celeborn arranging the schedules for the guards at the gates made itself known every time the hadhodrim arrived with a delivery.

Celebrimbor had personally witnessed a few disputes already. The morning shifts were given to Sindarin archers; at midday, they turned over their posts to their Sindarin friends. As night fell, it was only then that the Noldorin guards relieved them of their duties, and the Noldor held the posts through the duration of the night, keeping watch over the hills and towards the mountain passes. On the rare occasions that goblins came crawling out of their mountain holes, it was generally at night, which gave the Lord the excuse to say that he trusted the keen eyes of the Noldor with a more serious charge; but generally it was the songs of the Grey-elves that filled the gardens when the stars were out, and it left Celebrimbor questioning whether Celeborn was not simply showing favoritism.

He did _try_ to recuse himself from any of these discussions that did not directly involve his craftsmen, though, to mixed success.

Today, the guard schedule had only become his business because traders from Hadhodrond had pulled up to the gates with wagons in tow, and upon declaring the contents of their carriages to be the business of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and _only_ the Gwaith-i-Mírdain (which was generally an unspoken truth about their deliveries), they had been denied passage into the city. The young messenger had related as much to Celebrimbor as she stood nervously before him in his study, and mentioned that they had seen dozens of barrels under the cloth coverings of the wagons.

“… barrels, my lord! The hadhod says they hold _liquid gold_ inside of them—how is that possible if they are only made of oak?!”

Celebrimbor sighed, and set down his pen. The design he had been finalizing for a pendant would have to wait. “Come with me, Nimmeril. I am going to show you how to negotiate with our esteemed neighbors.”

Now, at the elaborate gates on the eastern side of Ost-in-Edhil that led out into the Sirannon Vale, he could feel the gazes of more than a dozen bystanders on him. Word had probably spread that there was an altercation taking place; it would have spread faster once they learned that the Chief Craftsman had been summoned to resolve it. For all that Celebrimbor hated unnecessary spectacle, however, this was a moment where he didn’t begrudge it. The more people that could bear witness to the proper way to greet dwarven tradesmen, the better; maybe some of them could start learning from it.

“Lord Celebrimbor—”

He ignored the voices of the guards, letting the sound mingle with the squabbling crows in the holly branches, and pushed past to step out into the main road.

As far as trading caravans went, this was a small shipment. There were six wagons, each of them drawn by a pair of golden-horned goats, and though the contents were covered by canvas, the round shapes of barrels were visible beneath the cloth. It wouldn’t be _mithril_ without a troop of heavily armored dwarves guarding the caravan, not that barrels were the vehicle of choice for the precious metal, and jewels too were typically carried in chests… but from Nimmeril’s description, Celebrimbor already had a good idea of what was contained within, so the observations were cursory.

He bit back a smile as he drew his arms up in front of himself and bowed deeply.

“Celebrimbor Curufinion at your service,” he greeted the lead merchant, abandoning Sindarin in favor of the Common tongue.

“Rúna Mathisdottir at yours and your family’s,” she answered, returning the bow. “About time you got here, princeling. Your guards seem to think we want to let the streets flow with quicksilver and molten rock.”

Celebrimbor risked a glance over his shoulder, back at the curious onlookers. “Do you have documentation for the items?”

Rúna waved her hand dismissively. “This is a gift from our craftsmen to yours. We’re not demanding recompense for it, so there’s no paper for your archives.”

“Ah. Now even _I_ am beginning to grow suspicious when you say things like that.

He received a broad grin in response, Rúna’s neatly trimmed mustache bobbing upwards next to her scrunched nose. “As you well should be, princeling.”

Celebrimbor’s gaze flickered back to the barrels. “It’s beer, isn’t it?” _Liquid gold_ … they could be shameless in their humor sometimes.

Rúna gave the side of her prominent nose a tap with one of her gloved fingers. “Special materials for the craftsmen of the city only. Do share with the apprentices—they deserve a break from your nagging now and then.”

“Do I nag?” Celebrimbor’s hand fluttered to his chest in a gesture of mock surprise, his ring-clad fingers coming to rest against embroidered satin. “I merely give advice. And here is mine to you: you should stay with us to crack open the first keg in the crafting hall tonight as a show of your good will, if you are able. Let us put this incident here at the gates behind us. I’ll see to it that the guards are reprimanded for hindering you.”

It wouldn’t bring him joy to reopen the wound again with Celeborn, because they bickered enough about the proper way to conduct trade already even without raising these extra complaints. The Lord of Eregion would accuse Celebrimbor of overstepping his charge by criticizing the guards, and then he’d insist that the amount they paid the dwarves in exchange for jewels out of the mines exceeded what was necessary; and when their voices eventually raised in argument, Lady Galadriel would step in with the last word and let the issues be buried for another month.

It was a problem Celebrimbor would rather face after he rematched Rúna in a drinking contest, in other words. (He’d won last time when they had wine, but dwarven ale was a trickier substance to balance. And Rúna and her friends of course would have known it.) 

* * *

Yet a few hours later, for the second time that day, Celebrimbor was interrupted in his study.

At least this time he was expecting it. After greeting the emissaries at the gate, Celebrimbor had walked with the dwarves and their wagons up to the great crafting hall the craftsmen claimed for themselves at the summit of Ost-in-Edhil’s highest hill. The goats had been stabled alongside the thoroughbreds, the barrels of beer had been elegantly set up on a banqueting table atop runners of velvet and cloth-of-gold, and the dwarves themselves had been given adjacent guest rooms. But the path was not a short one, and whispers had travelled about Celebrimbor’s guests ahead of their procession through the streets.

Even if the gossip hadn’t travelled one tongue at a time through the city, Lady Galadriel would still have known about the dispute at the gates ahead of anyone else.

“My lord, your presence is requested,” the second messenger informed Celebrimbor after a bow, and so once again he found himself setting down his pen. It wasn’t yet past sundown, though he was already beginning to rely on the blue glow of the Fëanorian lamps to aid his work rather than Anar alone.

“May I respectfully decline until tomorrow?”

“My lord, I think … I think you had better not.”

In truth, Celebrimbor would not have really refused; he could be sharp with his words, but flagrant disregard for courtesy never sat easily with him. The light outside was transitioning from golden to fiery orange; if he played his cards right and made honest attempts to reconcile, he might still be free in the twilight moments after Anar slipped away from view. Washing away the inevitable sour taste it would leave in his mouth with cups full of golden ale seemed like an encouraging prospect, although entering a drinking contest with Rúna while his mind was already shaken might be setting himself up for certain failure.

Sighing, Celebrimbor pushed himself from his chair, picked up the silver circlet he’d set aside on his desk as he worked, and attempted to fit it neatly around his disarrayed hair. He’d pulled much of it up and away from his face and knotted it with cord, even the previously plaited strands and dwarven-fashioned beads he liked to weave into them, and it worked uneasily around the twisting vine pattern of the circlet.

But it did sometimes bear reminding to Celeborn that by blood he was still technically a prince of the Noldor, even if the crown of the High King had taken a diversion. And, more importantly, no small number of the Noldor in Eregion had forgotten it, even if only a handful remembered for themselves the great northern fortresses in Beleriand.

* * *

The tension was immediately apparent when Celebrimbor stepped into the hall.

Celeborn stood near to the door with a stony expression on his face, and a number of his attendants stood uneasily around him, all of them similarly cloaked in grey. They spared only a brief glance in Celebrimbor’s direction as he walked in, but likewise, Celebrimbor gave them only passing notice as well.

Lady Galadriel was the smaller of two white-robed figures in the center of the hall, her arms folded defiantly across her chest in a gesture more stubborn than any Celebrimbor had witnessed from her in an Age.

But her opponent was unfamiliar.

There were no elven women that rivaled Galadriel for height, and so Celebrimbor assumed the figure with fiery golden hair who stood with their back turned must have been some visiting lord. A darker shade of red, and he might have resembled Pityafinwë Ambarussa—a fleeting resemblance, and yet it still caused the craftsman’s throat to involuntarily close up for a second, so rarely had he seen such a color. But the comparison did raise a certain point: fire-red hair was exceedingly rare among the Noldor, and unheard of in the Sindar and the other wood elves.

Perhaps it was not an elf at all? There were older and more powerful things in the world, though he would not have thought to find them on this side of the Great Sea.

“You called for me.” Celebrimbor finally chose to speak once it seemed that no greetings or introductions were forthcoming. His apprehensions about getting scolded over the visiting dwarves were giving way to confusion instead; if another unusual visitor had arrived, what was it to him? Let the Lord and Lady handle matters on their own, and leave him out of it until they had some favor to ask of him.

The guest turned, and bowed, momentarily obscuring the beautiful lines of his face behind tumbling locks of gold; but he held Celebrimbor’s gaze with honey-colored eyes, and to the elf’s surprise, he spoke in Quenya as he made his greeting. “Lord Tyelperinquar. Chief Craftsman. You do me such a great honor.”

By contrast, Galadriel’s eyes had turned to ice as she glared at the speaker. Her gaze regained some softness when it flickered over to Celebrimbor, but not enough to override an obvious sentiment of anger or mistrust.

 _Be wary. He is not what he seems._ Her voice was as clear in his mind as if she had spoken to him out loud.

 _Let me be the judge of that,_ Celebrimbor returned. A fair enough warning, he supposed, but it demanded that he first make sense of what he was seeing. An emissary from Lindon made the most sense, but that would not explain the clear hostility from Galadriel or Celeborn, would it? Such a guest also would have come with a host under Ereinion’s star-studded banners and made such a commotion of trumpets that Celebrimbor would have been disturbed from his work far sooner.

He wondered if he ought to bow, too. He had the impression it would raise ire from Celeborn and Galadriel if he did, but spite alone was not enough of a reason to act on the impulse, especially since he bore no ill will to his cousin. Pride tended to be the stronger emotion of his, in any case, which dictated he not prostrate himself in front of strangers.

“I have not had the pleasure of an introduction,” he said instead, responding likewise in Quenya. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

The guest’s mouth twitched upwards into a smile. He was very fair of face; high cheekbones, a delicate nose, shapely lips. “I am old enough to have borne many names, but the one I give to you now is Annatar. Does that not answer both of your questions?”

_Lord of Gifts?_

If his intention was to spark curiosity, he had succeeded so far.

“Yet your hands are empty,” Celebrimbor observed.

He hadn’t meant it as a joke, but Annatar still laughed, a sound like wind chimes on a day with blue skies and a gentle breeze. “It would take some bravery to enter the city of the famed jewelsmiths and offer them more treasures. If I offered you lesser crafts, you would rebuke me; if I offered you greater crafts according to my ability, you would see it for an insult. Such is not my intention, and the gift I offer is different in nature.”

“According to what ability?”

“To every craftsman a tutor, Tyelperinquar. Tell me of yours and I will tell you of mine, and then you will understand me.”

Celebrimbor suddenly felt pinned between Celeborn and Galadriel’s stares. He was also starting to wish he taken more care to his appearance. The unkempt hair and askance circlet, the hastily sashed robes and ink stains around his hands … it was not befitting of the answers he was about to give. It had been a fine appearance when he expected to meet Celeborn, but what kind of first impression was it making to a handsome guest? “I was a student of my father, Curufinwë Fëanárion. And for a time, briefly, of Curufinwë Fëanáro himself.” The greatest of elven smiths, whose legacy…

Whose legacy for _crafting_ he meant to uphold, or perhaps even to surpass one day, if he could.

“Your grandfather was also a student of my master,” Annatar replied. “He too might have been called _Aulendil_ , as I have been called.”

Fëanor would have sooner done any number of unpleasant things before taking the name of a Valar to be part of his own, and Celebrimbor raised an eyebrow at that—but he understood the point. Annatar was a student of Aulë. Perhaps even …

He took a breath. “You are one of his Maia.”

Annatar inclined his golden head, but said nothing.

“I was not aware that the Valar cared for our troubles here on this side of the Sea,” Celebrimbor stated, and finally felt some sympathy towards Celeborn and Galadriel for their suspicion. The War of Wrath had been a necessity, granted; but the elves that remained here were either here because they had no desire to live under the rule of the Valar in the West, or else they were not _welcomed_ there, no pardons being granted to them. Receiving a kindhearted messenger from them now, many hundreds of years after that last parting … ah, to what end? Would they offer one without some goal in mind?

Galadriel had drifted to the side of the hall as Celebrimbor spoke with Annatar, joined by Celeborn. _His story does not add up,_ she wordlessly spoke again.

_Then why did you summon me here?_

_He refused to leave until he had spoken with you._

“The Valar do not,” Annatar continued. “Not as a whole. But Aulë once favored your people, and he is moved to see you in collaboration with his Children. You might say that I am here to reward you for your devotion.”

“Reward us with what?”

“Teaching. Instruction. You have made _fine_ things, Tyelperinquar Curufinwion, but you have not made _great_ things. Allow me to stay here and guide you, and I will make you and your jewelsmiths the envy of the West.”

It might have hurt less if Annatar had pulled a concealed dagger from under the folds of his snow-white silk robes and driven that into Celebrimbor’s chest, rather than picking at his insecurity in front of everyone. 

_You have not made_ great _things._

His father had asked him once, in one of his fits of irritability towards the end, if he wanted to be worthy of the name Curufinwë. _Curufinwë Ilvanon_ —his father-name demanded he meet a legacy, his mother-name demanded perfection of him, and now he used neither in favor of a common epessë. Among craftsmen talented enough to be called _silver-hand_ , he might stand out as exceptional, but among those bearing the name _Skilled Finwë_ … ah, even his father had not liked to be considered a copy, or somehow second-best.

“Why?” Celebrimbor asked quietly.

“A skilled craftsman must test the limits of his ability,” Annatar answered. “Aulë has gifted us with our abilities so that many beautiful things may come into the world. I have been his student, and now it is my turn to be teacher. I wish to have the best students; is that so wrong?”

Before Celebrimbor could answer, Galadriel spoke up from the side of the room. “You went first to Lindon,” she said, “and made the same offer to them.”

Annatar did not flinch. “My master instructed me to seek the Noldor. I went to their High King, and I found him unwilling to receive me as his guest, but there in his kingdom I learned of the greatness of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Fate puts us on mysterious paths, Lady Galadriel—not always easy ones, or straightforward ones.”

Galadriel’s voice was back in Celebrimbor’s head. _I do not trust him. Ereinion does not trust him._

Celebrimbor shot her a glance. _The two of you rarely trust me, either, and I have done no wrong to you._

He had been born a Fëanorian, after all. Galadriel’s resentment for the deeds his father had taken part in was buried, but not wholly absent, while Celeborn openly wore his distrust and liked to speak of it whenever he had a chance. Ereinion had never forgiven Celebrimbor for suggesting the High Kingship of the Noldor should belong to someone with more Noldorin blood. It was a point he’d raised for argument’s sake rather than for any desire for kingship himself, which was the way some interpreted his words at the time, but it had been damaging enough to their relationship.

“Annatar Aulendil,” Celebrimbor addressed the guest, refocusing his attention as the name rolled off his tongue, but when he continued to speak it was in Sindarin for the benefit of Lord Celeborn’s audience. “Your offer concerns me and my guild, and if you are permitted to stay, it ought to be at _my_ discretion. I will hear advice from the Lord and Lady of Eregion on the matter, but I do not see why we must come to a conclusion tonight. Stay, show us what you mean to offer, and we can decide if the arrangement is mutually beneficial, yes?”

Celeborn gave a derisive snort. “Your craftsmen are in my city, Celebrimbor Curufinion. You would do well to remember it.”

“My craftsmen _are_ your city,” Celebrimbor returned. “They built its walls, and they could tear them down again and move them if I asked them to. And speaking of which, I do have an appointment with them that I must keep tonight. Is our business here concluded?”

That would have been the point at which he’d normally turn on his heel and walk out of the hall, but Annatar added an extra complication. Where was the Maia to go? Would he wait patiently here in the hall until he was called for again, or would Galadriel and Celeborn throw him out into the Sirannon Vale and request the gates barred? Perhaps that was not even the worst option—it would ensure that Annatar didn’t see Celebrimbor at his worst, turning the grandiose crafting hall into a dwarven beer hall.

Granted, the Gwaith-i-Mírdain had managed to maintain their reputation in spite of such events being held on a regular basis every year. Besides, collaboration between the elven smiths and the dwarven miners had been the foundation for the wealth and prestige of Eregion, and that required meeting the dwarves halfway when it came to custom. It could not always be the Noldor imposing their rich wine and laments of the First Age.

“My Lord. My Lady.” Celebrimbor forced a smile towards the Sindarin elves. “By your leave, I would like to take Annatar as my charge this evening. A Maia of the West deserves to see our local custom firsthand before promising aid to us, do you not agree?”

“So long as you tell him that drinking yourself into a stupor with the naugrim is not the way of every elf in Eregion, you may do as you please,” Celeborn answered. “I should say you look as if you have already started on it. Go, then, and the consequences of this be on your head. We will speak more of this later—” His face twisted itself further into a sneer. “—at _my_ discretion.”

* * *

“You and Lord Celeborn are not on good terms,” Annatar observed, leaning against the tree-shaped doorframe leading into Celebrimbor’s bed chamber.

Still concerned by his messy appearance, Celebrimbor had led Annatar on a detour after they fled the great hall. He had a comb balanced between his teeth as he attempted to untangle his dark hair, but hopefully the pulsing glow of the Fëanorian lamps disguised the tremor in his hands as he stared helplessly at his mirror.

“Mmn.” Transferring the locks to one hand, he plucked the comb out of his mouth again. “We never have been. He has misliked me since the moment of our meeting. But the craftsmen are best served here by Hadhodrond, and so I must put up with him for their sake.”

In the mirror, he could see a thoughtful expression come to rest on Annatar’s face, his molten gold eyes glowing brightly even in the twilight. “I do look forward to meeting your guild; your dedication to them is admirable.”

Were it not for the Mírdain, Celebrimbor might have pushed Celeborn into a muddy tributary of the Sirannon many years ago and fled for the deepest chamber of Hadhodrond to make a solitary dwelling there, devoted to his crafts and his crafts alone. Duty to the guild kept him above ground, however—not to mention a fondness for Ost-in-Edhil’s spires and arches, and the holly trees in Eregion’s vales with their glossy leaves and bright winter berries. 

After a few seconds of watching Celebrimbor struggle to get the plait started, Annatar finally stepped forward. “May I?” he asked, reaching out to gently stay Celebrimbor’s hands in one of his own; with the other, he swept around the elf’s shoulder, and gradually reached in to pluck the comb away from his teeth with the slowness and carefulness of someone trying to befriend a stray dog.

Celebrimbor was temporarily too surprised to speak, but he lowered his hands once Annatar released his hold. This was more embarrassing than his initial unkempt appearance, and a proportionate blush had risen along the curve of his cheekbones. “You do not have to.”

“I do not like to watch you struggle. Stay still, Tyelperinquar. I will work quickly.” He brought a finger around beneath Celebrimbor’s chin, and tapped there, encouraging him to lift his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember who initially came up with the headcanon that Celebrimbor's father-name was also Curufinwë, but I know it made the rounds in a certain circle on Tumblr a few years ago. I'm using it here because I like the implications, but I can't take credit for it. On the other hand, the mother-name Ilvanon is purely my own headcanon; it loosely means "perfect boy." It's a high-expectations family! 
> 
> Anyway, this wasn't supposed to be an "Annatar comes to Eregion" story because there are a lot of excellent fics of that nature already, but it took that direction regardless. 
> 
> Also, I apologize for Celeborn in this one. He comes across a little more villainous than he deserves, but I did write with the idea in mind that this entire fic could be sympathetically rewritten from his perspective. He has valid complaints and Celebrimbor isn't a saint by any means, especially since this fic is inspired by the version of canon where the Gwaith-i-Mírdain essentially start a coup against Celeborn and Galadriel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Annatar and Galadriel both share doubts, and Celebrimbor talks to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.

When Celebrimbor awoke the next morning, he could tell it was already late in the morning by the way the sunlight was streaming in through the open windows. The traceries in the lintel and the holly boughs framing the outside of the villa made a pattern spill across the sheets and on to the ornamental carpet, and Celebrimbor allowed a few moments to pass, listening to the sounds of the city filtering inside. A pair of chattering ravens and a spirited handful of sparrows, a more distant rhythmic tapping on an anvil, and the pages of a book turning—

Without raising his head, his gaze flickered across the room to alight on the other figure.

This morning, Annatar’s garment was gold—everything gold, his long wavy hair, his elegant cat-like eyes, the tone of his smooth skin, the jewelry in his ears and on his fingers. He had pulled one of the books from Celebrimbor’s shelves and was paging through it as he reclined in the reading chair.

“Good morning,” he greeted without looking up from the page.

Celebrimbor’s tongue darted out to moisten his lips. Last night’s rigorous consumption of ale had left him feeling slow and headachy, hence his reluctance to fully sit up. Water would be nice, if he could find any; someone usually came by in the morning with bread and tea and fruit, but that still demanded of him that he crawl out of bed and out into the courtyard. In time, in time...

“Why are you here?” he asked once he trusted his tongue was still working.

Annatar’s hand stilled before he turned the page again. “You do not remember coming home last night?” His voice was laced with amusement, though of course he wasn’t giving an answer. It was a deflection, if anything.

But Annatar was also not wrong, and Celebrimbor winced. “I assume I knew the way.”

“No doubt you did, but I am afraid you lacked the capacity to put your knowledge into action. I had to carry you.”

Ah. Annatar must have remembered the location from their brief visit the night before. It shouldn’t have been surprising to know he had a good memory; the Maia might’ve found it by innate ability even without Celebrimbor’s previous invitation.

“You stayed,” Celebrimbor observed as he finally pulled himself upright, his head spinning as it struggled to keep pace with his movement. Did he have Annatar to thank for removing his shoes and his silver circlet, too? Aside from those items, he was still dressed in last night’s robes, though the forest green satin bore a few more creases this morning.

Annatar still looked as if he found the episode more amusing than anything, which Celebrimbor supposed was not the worst result, even if it made him inclined to avoid the Maia’s gaze. He could have abandoned Ost-in-Edhil in disgust, if he had wanted to, and spared Celebrimbor, Galadriel, and Celeborn the argument over his presence. Instead, he looked as comfortable as if this was his own home and his own library.

“I will leave when I am bidden, and not before,” Annatar answered. “Someone brought you tea, by the way. There is a lovely spread in the courtyard beside the fountain.”

“You didn’t bring it to me here?” Celebrimbor finally stood up, blinked a few times to adjust, and motioned to Annatar, who showed no indication that he understood the question was meant in jest. “Fine. Come with me. We should hurry before the crows get to it. They have been getting more aggressive lately.”

He didn’t bother putting shoes back on. Galadriel had taken to going everywhere in the city without shoes these days, so he figured he could make it to the courtyard of his own home without them.

Prince though he was, the villa was not especially large while he had no one to share it with and relatively few treasures to hoard. He had the bedchamber, and a library next to it that was largely redundant given the number of books he kept on shelves near his bed. There was the similarly redundant study, although that at least had a large table and many windows so he could work on setting gems with the right tools even outside the forge; the mood did strike him at unusual hours. A private room with a bath, two small rooms for storage, and one tiny room with a largely unused hearth completed the scene, with everything arranged around a central garden in which the hollies grew prominent.

The fountain was the centerpiece there, a few tendrils of ivy making their way up the sides. The sculptor had initially thought of a design featuring Ossë, but Celebrimbor had staunchly rejected it—simply remembering the black, roiling seas outside Alqualondë was enough to make him feel faint. The fact that he’d chosen a home so far inland was hardly coincidence, either, though for that matter, their distance from the seashore would have made a tribute to Ossë look ill-informed.

The final design had featured a series of inoffensive herons with outstretched wings, and the water trickled gently down a series of carved stones besides them.

At some point in the morning, one of Celebrimbor’s attendants had set out a white cloth on the flat stone edge of the fountain and placed a silver tray on top of it, with a matching silver teapot. A jade cup was placed next to it, and a series of bowls: the smallest carried floral scented tea leaves, a larger one had been filled with blueberries, and the largest had just enough room for honey-sweetened pastries.

Celebrimbor wasted no time in balancing himself onto the edge of the fountain, folding one leg up against the stone surface as he sat, and then busied himself with preparing the tea.

Perhaps he should seek out another cup for Annatar? But the Maia probably did not need to eat, or even want to eat, for that matter. Herbs and hot water in a cup couldn’t have held much appeal to him. Eyeing him curiously, Celebrimbor plucked one of the blueberries from the bowl, and popped it into his mouth. Not yet in season; this one was a little sour, unless that was just the faint recollection of the dwarven ale clouding his judgement and his sense of taste.

“You are still wearing rings on your fingers,” Annatar noted patiently. He had not tried to imitate Celebrimbor by sitting, and as he took languid steps across the courtyard tiles, he gave the impression of being distinctly taller. Looming, almost. “Give one to me. I wish to see it closer.”

Celebrimbor hesitated. But he did as he was asked, slipping one from his right hand and flicking it in Annatar’s direction with a light toss. Annatar caught it mid-air and held it up towards the light, while Celebrimbor replaced his empty-handed feeling with a few more of the sour blueberries.

Annatar ran his finger around the perimeter of the ring, then twisted it from side to side. At one point, he attempted to fit it around his long, slender fingers, experimentally trying on one hand and then the other. But then he dropped it into his palm, closed his fingers like a cage around it, and closed his hand into a fist.

When he opened it again, palm facing outwards towards Celebrimbor, there was only a molten and cooled lump of metal, and the elf’s eyes flew open in shock.

“You—”

“Was that all that the greatest smith in exile has to offer?” Annatar’s voice was calm, but the disappointment was written clearly in his expression. “A few interlaced bits of metal? It did not even adjust to match the size of my finger.”

“I never said it was my greatest work,” Celebrimbor snapped in return, feeling heat rising in his face. The loss of the ring was an annoyance, but it wasn’t as if it had been irreplaceable… that, perhaps, was the point Annatar was trying to make. But it had been a while since anyone had dared criticize his work so directly.

“Yet you wear it and display it in front of your craftsmen. A mediocre piece, and you know it. Your skill is wasted if you make basic ornaments with no further purpose. Now, if you wish for me to judge you on your finest work, then perhaps you should present yourself with it.”

Celebrimbor scowled. “I’ve had the most praise for my work on the gates of Hadhodrond. That is not so easy to carry around with me. If I show it to you, will you destroy it, too?”

The corner of Annatar’s lip twitched into something that could have been a smile. “I should like to see it ere I decide. But I wonder, are you the People of the Stonewrights, or People of the Jewelsmiths? However fine your craft there might be, you have a name you ought to uphold.”

Celebrimbor was silent for a moment, chewing on another blueberry. “You were kinder last night.”

“And I will continue to be kind when you have earned the praise you seek. I am not rescinding my offer; you have talent and potential, and I only want to see you use it adequately.”

“Were there no able students in Aman?”

“What need has Aman for great craftsmanship?” Annatar looked bemused by the question. “What remains there of the Eldar need only go to the Valar to solve their woes—including to Aulë. And to me, while I was there. But those woes are very few. Need drives innovation, and yet they find all of their needs met, and thus they have no cause to create things.”

That was fair, Celebrimbor decided. Well, if Annatar hoped to find imperfections to solve with the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, there would be no shortage of them here in Eregion, and yet more still if they found cooperation with Hadhodrond as they learned.

“We can speak with my craftsmen more,” he offered; after all, before he formalized any tutelage from Annatar, he wanted a serious discussion with those closest to him to know how they felt about the matter. If they overwhelmingly shared Galadriel’s misgivings instead of Celebrimbor’s curiosity, then he’d have to agree with their wishes—but one small gathering wherein the focus had been dwarven ale, and not the radiant new guest, was hardly enough to go by.

“At your own pace, Tyelperinquar. Even Tirion was not built in a single day.”

Celebrimbor looked down at the bowl of blueberries, then back at Annatar. “Do you eat?”

Annatar tilted his head curiously, which Celebrimbor took as an invitation to pluck a blueberry out of the bowl and throw it towards him. Just as he had seamlessly caught the ring before, he now caught the berry, and gave it a similar scrutinizing glance before taking it between his teeth. Celebrimbor watched with fascination as it disappeared behind the Maia’s lips.

“Too sweet for my taste, I am afraid,” was Annatar’s assessment.

* * *

For all that Celebrimbor disliked riding, it wasn’t the horses’ fault, and he did not blame them personally for being so tall and uncomfortable to sit astride. Galadriel had readied two kind grey palfreys for their journey, the taller of which had seemed to recognize his apprehension when he came to the stables, and it gave him a reassuring nudge with its nose before he mounted.

As was his cousin’s propensity, she was clad all in grey. A grey-cloaked hood, grey suede riding gloves, silver for her circlet and girdle; she had even worn shoes for this venture. Rather like a storm cloud, but with the promising gleam of sunlight slipping through at the edges; that suited her as it suited the mood of this meeting, which had been arranged at her request.

He’d largely forgone jewelry today, still smarting from Annatar’s criticisms, with the exception of a brooch for his own dark red cloak. The eight-pointed star pattern had not been crafted by his own hands, though; Galadriel had raised her brow when she saw it, but she had not commented. The motif existed elsewhere in the city, at any rate. On the fluttering banners around the crafting halls, and incorporated into the stonework.

There were a number of shaded groves along the approach to the lower slopes of the Hithaeglir, many of them hiding springs and stony pools beneath the pine and holly. Riding north, it was possible to stay mostly under the shade of trees rather than crossing open ground, where they would have been at the mercy of the midday sun. There were other dangers, too, if they ventured west or south—the hill country was the home of many tribes of Men, and while they were mostly content to keep their distance, sometimes that distance translated to the type of fear that let arrows be loosed.

When the horses had begun to slow their strides, Galadriel had steered their course along a narrow stream, drawing to a halt where it broadened into a rocky pool under the shade of pine trees. She dismounted by the waterside, her boots touching the ground soundlessly, and waited until Celebrimbor had alighted as well.

“You know why I have invited you,” Galadriel spoke after a moment. Gathering her skirts in her hand, she drifted closer to the edge of the pool, and kneeled so that she could reach out and run her fingers across the surface.

“Because you enjoy the company of your favorite kinsman?” Celebrimbor guessed.

He saw her hesitate, probably trying to decide if his words were some sort of trap—when Celeborn was present, they often were. “They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, which you seem inclined to put to the test. Many say that you spend days on end at your study of the forge, taking no food or rest in that time.”

“On occasion,” Celebrimbor admitted, waving a hand dismissively. “They say you disappear into the forests for days on end, whispering to the trees. To each our own.”

Galadriel’s lip turned upwards in a brief smile as she straightened and stood. “The trees have interesting things to say, but their speech is slow and difficult to understand. But let us be concerned with that later. I wished to speak to you alone about Annatar.”

Celebrimbor had been aware, and he would never have agreed to ride with her if he had objected. But the statement still caused him to cross his arms defensively in front of his chest. “In the years of my exile, I’ve not had an opportunity such as this one. I wonder why you are so intent to counsel me against working with him.”

“Is that not in itself a cause for suspicion?” Galadriel countered.

Celebrimbor exhaled. It was not quite a laugh. “You think it implausible that good fortune should come my way.”

“I did not say that.” Galadriel’s eyes flashed briefly with a cold light, the same one that had been present when they had all stood together in the throne room. “Though I will remind you that I am subject to the same Doom that you are, and I have not forgotten it. Were you too young at the time to remember the words of Mandos?”

On the contrary. Celebrimbor found a point upon the distant slopes of the mountains to focus his gaze so he would not be forced to meet Galadriel’s forceful gaze, or to level an equally cold one in her direction. “Given that most of Lindon and half of Eregion blame _me_ for it, with my grandfather and my father in absence, I am not sure how I could forget. But we did not come here to discuss our family’s unpleasant history, did we? Tell me plainly what you fear—tell me the worst that could happen if I entreat Annatar to stay, and I promise I will listen. But I will not decide based on an unspecified whim.”

Galadriel sighed, audibly. “I fear him because I do not understand him,” she said after a moment. “His motives are not clear to me, and a Maia of such power whose intentions seem hidden beyond some veil of courtesy seems to be a dangerous associate.”

Annatar’s motives had not seemed hidden to Celebrimbor, even before he’d had the luxury of more private conversation with him. “You assume his motives are not genuine, but you have no proof of it—you are simply too proud to accept that the Valar may be capable of good will.”

“While you are so stubbornly fixated on others’ opinion of you that you blindly trust any person who praises you.”

A few crows laughed at the exchange from somewhere up in the trees. The riposte made Celebrimbor wince, and he knew his ensuing silence confirmed the point she had scored with it. Fine; he was inclined to listen to honeyed words when they were offered, but perhaps that had something to do with the rarity that he received them.

“When you came to Doriath, did you understand the intentions of Queen Melian, or did she need to persuade you, too?” he asked. “Your own brothers could not have reached you even if they wished, for the borders of that kingdom were filled with evil things at her very invitation. Yet you speak of her with reverence, and I trust that you knew her at her best. Would you not wish for me to find a mentor of my own, given your admiration of her?”

“Melian had the entire kingdom of Doriath to speak for her greatness,” Galadriel answered. “Annatar comes alone and at no one’s recommendation. Neither you nor I knew him when he abided in the West. Do you truly not see reason for concern, for that fact alone?”

She had spent half of her time in Alqualondë and never sought to learn from Aulë, preferring instead the company of Yavanna; he had spent formative years in Formenos with the gates barred against all but Fëanorian loyalists, prohibited from studying with the great Vala as his father and grandfather had done in their youth. So their lack of previous acquaintance in itself meant little; many things and many Maiar would have escaped their notice, preoccupied as they were in their youth with other matters.

“Then your judgement can be no better than mine, can it?” Celebrimbor allowed a bitter smile. “Though I dare say we are both better informed in our guesses than Ereinion. Pity that I find myself opposed to both of you—we’re still the last of kin, you know.”

He didn’t need to look up to see the pity in Galadriel’s expression, as her feeling was evident when she spoke. “I wish I could show it to you better, but I caution you because I love you; and Ereinion loves you too. You know we are all the last, and so we must stick together; my brothers are gone, my nephew is gone, my cousins are all gone. My daughter grows up without knowing the kin of her mother or her father. Such is the way of things in this Age.”

At least she had her daughter.

Sometimes Celebrimbor had considered it for himself, because he felt that he ought to have done so by now. A family, a wife… there were jewelsmiths who would be blissfully happy to court him, if he asked, some who might even be proud to become part of the House of Fëanor and not ashamed to be associated with kinslayers. He could have a handsome son and name him Curufinwë, and then become an absent, anxious father who spent days on end locked in his study, staring glassy-eyed at written treatises and wondering if a child born in exile after hundreds of years would be subject to the same miserable fate of his forebears.

No; that life was not for him and held absolutely no appeal, even if anyone had inspired any love in him beyond a teacher’s pride and care for their student. He had come to accept this a long time ago. And as the years passed, he only grew more convinced of it; he could confidently say he would not find lifelong companionship with any of his people born after the long, miserable years of the wars in Beleriand. They’d never understand either his sorrow, or for that matter his pride. But those who remained of the original exiles were few in number, and most of them were already married. 

“When you held Celebrían for the first time, was it the best moment in your life?” Celebrimbor asked.

Galadriel’s answer was unhesitating. “It was.”

“I am not going to have a moment like that,” Celebrimbor declared. “Nor will I have a moment to compare to the moment in which you met Celeborn, which means I must go and seek my happiness in other ways—crafting is what makes me happy, so can I not hope for good things, too? Can I not have my chance at being something other than a disappointment to my lineage? Perhaps Annatar cannot help me; but perhaps he can. You have said before how difficult it is to predict what may be.”

If some of the shadows had momentarily lifted from Galadriel’s face at the mention of Celebrían, they had returned at some point during Celebrimbor’s plea. “You have more optimism than I ever saw from your father or your grandfather,” she sighed. “I suppose I should not begrudge you that. I will not try to persuade you further, Celebrimbor, unless something happens and I am given new reason for my doubt, but I hope you will continue to consider my warning to you.”

Both of them paused; Celebrimbor was trying to weigh whether or not this was a victory.

“I will stay out of your way,” he finally said. “My business with Annatar needn’t be the trouble of Eregion as a whole. We will work together in the forges, and I will continue to advise you and Lord Celeborn according to my knowledge, but I will not make extra demands or disregard your rule, or whatever else you fear of me. If I judge Annatar right, he has no interest in matters outside of those of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.”

“For your sake, I hope your sight is clear,” Galadriel replied. “Come, then. We should return; I see rainclouds on the horizon.”

* * *

Celebrimbor and the surviving followers of Fëanor’s sons, who had been relatively few in number, had come to Eregion after Celeborn and Galadriel—like flowers after a season of rain. Ost-in-Edhil had been little more than an outpost then; in truth, Celebrimbor had thought it was an unusual choice for them to settle there among the rocky outcroppings and sharp-leaved holly trees, especially given the proximity to Hadhodrond. Even then, Celeborn had not tried to hide his dislike for the dwarves, though Galadriel looked more kindly towards them and even made a point to explore their great kingdom.

But further east in Lórinand, Amdír was largely disinterested in playing host to Noldorin refugees. Hithaeglir made a convenient barrier, the Iathrim pushing the furthest east to put space between themselves and the Noldor they resented, and so for the sake of his marriage Celeborn remained on the western side of the mountains.

In any case, the forges and crafting halls that dominated the higher slopes of Ost-in-Edhil had come later than the Lord and Lady, and the oldest of the buildings had themselves been repurposed from Celeborn’s initial concept of a palace that would have rivaled Menegroth for the sheer number of rooms it could boast. That did lead to a somewhat haphazard nature for some of the buildings, however—spaces that could not quite decide if they were meant to be gardens, or libraries, or spots to chisel out a mold for casting metal, and therefore became some manner of all of those places at once.

It was never hard to find someone working at some craft or another, even at odd times in the middle of the night or early in the morning. Often after sundown, Celebrimbor would either observe and offer advice, or teach lessons to the younger apprentices. Those were usually in the art of cutting gems or using the forges, but occasionally an aspiring loremaster would also want to ask questions about the kingdoms of Beleriand, and he indulged them too when he could.

Tonight, he had gathered together a random cross-section of elves as he had found them while wandering from one room to another while rain lashed against the stonework outside: a handful of eager apprentices, a few more senior craftsmen from the ranks of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, even a scholar. They’d taken up in one of the grander halls where the harpists sometimes performed or the scholars came to make public debate, though Celebrimbor sat modestly alongside his students and advisors off to the side of the room, next to the murals and tapestries.

He’d forgone the riding cloak from earlier, but the star-shaped brooch remained pinned to his surcoat.

Among his gathering, he had not invited Annatar. While he intended nothing of this discussion to be hidden from their guest, he supposed it would be easier for the others to speak their mind without the object of their discussion observing them with his piercing golden eyes.

“As many of you know, we have a guest in Ost-in-Edhil,” Celebrimbor began. “A Maia from Aman, who calls himself Annatar Aulendil. He has told me that he wishes to offer us instruction in the arts of crafting as a token of goodwill from Aulë. Thus far he has been allowed to stay by my leave, but our esteemed Lord and Lady mistrust him. I have been told that the High King has similarly rebuked him after he brought them the same offer in Lindon. Thus we have a precedent, and the eyes of our kinsmen on us. So I put it to you: what course do we follow?” 

The rest of the craftsmen looked thoughtful, though there was a lengthy pause before any of them dared to speak. Celebrimbor was about to open his mouth and bid one of the hastier apprentices to say what was clearly on the tip of his tongue, but before he could do so, one of his advisors spoke up.

“You and Lady Galadriel are the only ones in this city who remember Aman before exile.” Taerhethil had once called Thargelion his home, one of relatively few children born in the midst of the wars of the First Age. Accusations of his participation in the latter Kinslayings followed him, a perpetual dark cloud on his character, but he had privately confessed to Celebrimbor that he had not taken up his sword against Doriath—he’d abandoned his lord Caranthir, and carried guilt and misery over that fact, even while decrying the Kinslaying itself.

Celebrimbor hadn’t seen it as his place to forgive, but he could understand the look in his friend’s dark eyes that asked _should I not have been there, too?_

“You’re best placed to gauge why Aulë would want to help us now, after everything,” Taerhethil continued. “It seems to me that his help comes late, and without adequate reason. No wonder the Lady is suspicious.”

“Annatar would have it that learning is its own valuable cause, whenever it is sought,” Celebrimbor answered. “My grandfather already demanded distance from the Valar when I was a child, and I never had instruction from Aulë myself—I do not know his mind. But I would not imagine it is immune to changing, if he was ever even wholly against us. For all we know, our kinsmen have begun to put sympathetic words in his ears…”

Taerhethil snorted with laughter, but didn’t reply.

Fine; it was unlikely. Celebrimbor simply tended towards optimism.

“It seems to me that Gil-galad must have turned him away because they have little care for craftsmanship in Lindon,” the scholar mused, an elleth named Calennor. “I hear the High King’s jewels were all given to him by you, my lord?”

“Someone is exaggerating,” Celebrimbor answered. A few pretty things sent north and west every year to keep Ereinion from meddling, that was all. He doubted Ereinion even kept the majority of them.

“Lord Círdan already has the audience of Ossë and Uinen,” one of the apprentices spoke up. Haerîn had spent his youth by the sea, and by blood was only half Noldorin, not that Celebrimbor made any heritage a requirement for his students. “Many still offer prayers to Ulmo, and we maintain that he listens to us. Why shouldn’t Aulë do the same?”

Ah … more hypocrisy, no? Galadriel had once had Melian to guide her; Círdan had Ossë and Uinen; but only when Celebrimbor stood to have a friend and mentor in Annatar did it become a problem. He nodded, but bit his tongue; no one present needed to hear him complain about such a thing, even if it brought a certain twisting pain to his chest and a heated flare of annoyance.

“It’s because none of us pray to Aulë,” another apprentice retorted, immediately countered by a resolute “ _I_ do” from their friend.

“I think there are many among us who have reason to doubt the Valar,” Celebrimbor sighed. “After such a long absence from them, I understand why some might be skeptical. But what harm is there in accepting their messenger? I hope we are not too proud to deny help that is offered to us without the expectation of anything in return.”

“ _Does_ he expect nothing in return?” An attending harpist raised a brow. “If this is a mechanism to seek more apologies and repentance for your flight from Aman, they had best not demand it from all of us who bore no part.”

“Annatar claims he is here as a gesture of Aulë’s goodwill, not as an agent of Manwë or Mandos to make judgements. I can think of no reason why he would lie about it if he has another goal in mind.”

“Why did Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel think he had something to hide?” Haerîn asked after a moment.

Before Celebrimbor could explain Galadriel’s vague misgivings, Taerhethil interrupted. “Because they know the Gwaith-i-Mírdain already have more influence in this city than they do, and while I suppose that we stand to gain from this arrangement, a smith of Aulë will offer them very little. Celeborn already resents your influence here, Celebrimbor.”

It would have hurt worse to hear it if Celebrimbor was not already intimately aware of the truth of what Taerhethil said, if he did not purposely choose his words to tear at the edges of Celeborn’s insecurities whenever they spoke, if he did not proudly display the eight-pointed stars of the House of Fëanor on the city’s fluttering banners when the same insignia had once been carried against the Iathrim. He knew.

“He knows I have no designs on Lordship of Eregion,” Celebrimbor said at length. Such a position would only take away from the time he devoted to crafting—there were enough bureaucratic distractions to deal with as it was. Truly, the apprentices who had no other responsibilities were enviable at times! “It is enough for me to manage the affairs of our guild. But if I hear no objections tonight, I will put the acceptance of Annatar’s aid to a formal vote at our next convenience.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have slightly forgotten about Elrond and how he fits into the Second Age Noldorin sadness party. Maybe I'll make a oneshot about him ;w;


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Celebrimbor receives more than one challenge, and teaches a lesson.

Annatar arrived in Celebrimbor’s study a few weeks later with an armful of flowers.

Celebrimbor had been resting at his desk, his head nestled against his arms in the small space he’d cleared between the books and scrolls and inkwells. There was a minor ache in his back from the position, and he blinked a few times as he sat up, trying to discern if this was a hallucination of some kind. But Annatar’s golden figure did not disappear, and the bouquet had brought a sweet aroma to linger about the small room.

The Maia appeared to have gathered a wide array of blossoms from the various gardens in Ost-in-Edhil, though the shades of white and orange and yellow matched his choice of embroidered robes. Fern and lily, jasmine, rose, a few sprays of snapdragon and angelica; it bore a certain wildness, though Annatar must have taken the time to arrange them in an appealing way.

Celebrimbor frowned, and moistened his lips. “Why have you raided our gardens?”

“To inspire you,” Annatar answered. “Find a vase, Tyelperinkë, and then we will talk.”

It took some searching, but after a few minutes, Celebrimbor returned with a glass vessel that one of his students had gifted him a number of years ago; he had even made a detour to the fountain in the courtyard to partially fill it with water. A few at a time, Annatar placed the severed stems into the vase, then set the completed bouquet in the space where Celebrimbor had been resting before.

But the Maia kept one of the gardenias in his hand, balanced delicately between his long fingers. “Beautiful, are they not?” Annatar asked; Celebrimbor could feel his gaze on him.

“Yes,” Celebrimbor agreed, feeling like it was a test.

Annatar reached with his other hand to pluck one of the petals off the gardenia, pinching it and twisting until it ripped. “Yet they are fragile. And fleeting; one by one they will die off, and you will be left to sweep the withered petals off your desk.”

“Their impermanence is part of their beauty,” Celebrimbor mused, feeling sorry for the gardenia’s present indignity.

“Do you truly believe that? Or do you look for the beauty in it because you know it is unavoidable?” Annatar let the crushed petal flutter to the ground, and handed the rest of the marred blossom to Celebrimbor. “Imagine you could create something with the same delicacy and shapeliness, the same symmetry, but it would not fade. That is what I want you to create for me.”

Plenty of ornamental things incorporated the likeness of flowers, but there was something decidedly bold about trying to copy something so directly. But even in a few moments’ contemplation of it, Celebrimbor could see the appeal of the challenge. What materials would it demand? What essence of the flowers would he need to retain to suggest the same beauty, even as he reshaped it in a new medium?

“If you show me a copy simply made of mithril and gold, it will not be enough,” Annatar continued. “Impress me; show me everything you are capable of.”

* * *

When Celebrimbor accepted the title of Chief Craftsman of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, it had admittedly been with a touch of naivety. At no point in Beleriand had he been entrusted with any roles of leadership, and his efforts to learn by watching his father, his uncle, and the Kings of Nargothrond were never a sustained effort. By preference, he liked to _make_ things; leading a society of like-minded elves was the first time leadership had seemed like something he was capable of, or indeed interested in.

He had soon found out that in practice, the role demanded a good deal of political maneuvering. Celeborn exacerbated it with his machinations—but had the Gwaith-i-Mírdain remained in Lindon, Ereinion and his advisors would probably have exacerbated it in some similar way, and it would be harder to get supplies of mithril and gems.

But political annoyances aside, one of the positive things about Celebrimbor’s title was the opportunity to teach and mentor the younger elves.

He had taken many detours on his way to meet the group of students, past every garden that was situated high on the hill, pausing to look at the gathered blossoms. But in their natural habitat, they were not much different from the cut stems in the vase in his study, and what he needed more than anything was time with a sketchbook and no interruptions. Letting his initial ideas swirl and permeate in his mind while he taught wouldn’t be the worst thing, though, and the eager apprentices had on occasion provided bursts of inspiration through their questions.

There were five of them for the lesson today. Haerîn, the half-Sinda from Lindon; Limhiril, serious but ambitious in her study; sharp-tongued Íramaenas who was likely to put his cleverness towards stirring up trouble around Ost-in-Edhil; and Midhluin and Melaras, brother and sister, elegant but flightier than the deer who dwelled under the shade of the nearest groves. A variety of talents to cater to, though for this meeting he’d told them to write out short discussions of different metals—their uses, their strengths, their flaws.

It was a basic lesson, one they should have been familiar with from their first reading. Íramaenas looked visibly annoyed, and Celebrimbor eventually decided to have mercy.

“Íro, you are troubled by something. You can speak your mind.”

“My lord.” Íraemaenas blushed. “It’s merely… this is an easy exercise. We all know the properties of metal and their alloys. I thought we would be learning something more complicated today, because you…” His voice trailed off, and he glanced towards the side of the room, embarrassed.

“Because I am a good deal older than you, and I have had many years to practice?” Celebrimbor suggested. “If you are tired of the basic properties of metal now, then imagine how you will feel several hundred years from now, when you are still working with the same gold, silver, and mithril. Silver will not stop tarnishing because you would like a change; gold will not become less soft someday because it has decided it has been very inconvenient, and it is sorry.”

If Íramaenas had looked embarrassed before, he had now turned a shade of beet red, and his shoulders slumped.

“I trusted you all to know the properties by now, in truth. It’s the way that each of you have written about them that I am curious about. Íro… your writing has errors and I can tell you rushed through it, no doubt because you did not like my assignment, but your use of examples and exceptions are finely done. So I think with you, we will focus on learning to appreciate the process and not the result, and we may make a decent craftsman out of you yet.”

There were similar comments to make for each of them; Haerîn and Limhiril had both produced technically correct treatises, but they looked too close to rote copying, and suggested they would be similarly afraid to experiment when it came to the process itself. Midhluin and Melaras had clearly worked together, from which Celebrimbor gathered the two of them lacked confidence in their work.

“I know it is frustrating,” he addressed the group of them, his expression softening, “but you must learn the basics before you progress to more elaborate things. Do you think ithildin responds to the moon if the craftsman does not properly understand how to work with mithril? You must be careful, too; if you wish to incorporate magic into your work, you must have control over the materials so that you know they will do as you bid them.”

It was dangerous to begin playing with forces beyond your skill; a Fëanorian lamp made by someone who did not understand the proper way to seal the flame within its crystal could easily result in a building catching fire. An improperly set rune on a blade might see the entire thing shatter in combat. Luckily, such happenings were rare, as the techniques were taught with the utmost care only to those who had shown dedication and precision in their work, but Celebrimbor knew one young Elda in Nargothrond who had impatiently attempted to mimic his father’s legendary skill without proper instruction first: a humiliating public scolding had followed, which still made him wince to recall.

Towards the doors of the library foyer where they had made their meeting, a shimmer of gold caught Celebrimbor’s eye. Annatar had come to lean cat-like, one foot idly crossed over the other ankle and arms entwined in front of his chest, against the carved doorframe. His hair had been swept elegantly away from the handsome lines of his face, highlighting a line of golden earrings set with adamants running up the curve of his ear.

To think the trace of copper in his hair had once made Celebrimbor think of Ambarussa—he bore more resemblance to Finrod Felagund. Maybe that likeness had aroused some ache in Galadriel and Ereinion’s hearts, and that was why they spurned him.

“Don’t be discouraged,” Celebrimbor continued, pulling himself from his reverie and refocusing his attention on the students. “Remember that I am still learning myself. Our guest Annatar is here because there are skills that even I have not yet mastered, though I have been practicing these arts for longer than an Age. Now, with that in mind, who would like to help me select gems from our latest shipment out of Hadhodrond? We have a rare supply of citrine courtesy of King Dúrin, which we may use as an example—wait here while I fetch it.”

He pushed the students’ essays aside and stood, and as he made for the door, he motioned to Annatar to follow.

The Maia melted away from the door as fluidly as he arrived. “They seem fond of you,” Annatar observed as he fell into step beside Celebrimbor.

“I worry,” Celebrimbor admitted as he steered their course around a corner, “that I am too hard on them. Or that I am too soft. How does one find the right balance?”

Annatar tilted his head, a lock of golden hair falling over his shoulder. “I do not know.”

A wry smile flickered across Celebrimbor’s face. “Yes; I can see that.”

“You do not like my methods?”

Celebrimbor bit the inside of his cheek. “As I recall, they are very strict about courtesy in Aman. I think it must be due to the Vanyar—do you think it’s the Vanyar? So I expected you would be … how shall I say it? Nicer.”

Annatar laughed. “And so the pot calls the kettle black. That was not a very nice thing to say yourself, Tyelperinkë.”

The other’s laugh was disarming, and Celebrimbor relaxed, glancing up to give his mentor a reassuring look to show he’d meant no serious harm by his comment. “You’ve yet to move me to tears, which is more than can be said for some of my other teachers. But I hope you will not take that as a challenge. I think I am growing more delicate and brittle with age, like a piece of glass.”

He could feel Annatar’s intent gaze at that comment. “You are very thin,” he observed. “Do you trust that being Amanya is enough to keep your strength up? Is that why you do not always eat?”

The elf scowled. “You sound like my mother. Did you conspire with her back in Tirion before you came here?” Oddly enough, that was a possibility—she had remained there when the family left in exile. Annatar might even have recognized that Celebrimbor took after her looks more than he’d taken after Curufin’s; the softness in his face was all hers.

The coldness in his steel grey eyes, though; that was all Curufin. All Fëanor.

Annatar merely laughed again, a little quieter this time, but he neither answered nor parried with another question.

Nothing in Ost-in-Edhil was kept under lock and key, so it took no extra effort to seek out the chest full of citrine. If anyone had needed it for a project, Celebrimbor would not have begrudged them it, but most of the craftsmen were modest enough to leave boxes with Dúrin’s own seal for the Chief Craftsman to handle. For his part, Celebrimbor made sure to announce when he was finished, or to personally deliver the materials to those he knew desired them.

He’d spent little time in Tirion as a child, but he would never forget how the streets had been strewn with gems, glittering diamond dust coating the pavement and catching the light of the mingling Trees as it was kicked up by the feet of the passing Noldor. In a dream, Ost-in-Edhil bore similar wealth; wealth that she would not hoard, but trade freely between Hadhodrond and Lindon.

There was much work to be done before that dream would be realized, of course, but Celebrimbor was confident that it started with an open storeroom.

He lifted the box and carried it towards the window, unhinging the simple clasp on the chest so he could take a look inside. The citrine was still clustered together in its rough form, though he could see a range of warm hues, yellow and amber like the approaching autumn. Curiously, he picked one up and lifted it towards the light for a quick appraisal.

“Annatar, come here.”

The Maia took a curious step forward at Celebrimbor’s bidding. When Celebrimbor moved the crystal to the side to align it in his vision with Annatar’s golden eyes, it confirmed his suspicion, and he smiled, pleased with the association he had made.

“You are lucky,” he said. “To have gem-like eyes is enviable.” No one would be making poetic associations with the storm-grey of his gaze, after all. A cloudy day, the flash of a blade, or cold, enduring rock; none sparked delight the way sapphire or emerald or citrine did.

“Is it?” Annatar seemed amused. “It is not luck, though. I chose the color.”

Celebrimbor replaced the rough crystal and resealed the small chest, tucking it under his arm before making towards the door. “It suits you,” he added as they left the storeroom behind. “I suppose you knew that when you chose it.”

“I did,” Annatar confirmed. But he suddenly swept in front of Celebrimbor in a long, fluid step, halting the elf in his path. “Let me see yours.”

Celebrimbor was tall; all the Amanyar were, compared to the Grey-elves and the Green-elves who had never known the light in the West, and even compared to the Noldor born in exile. Celebrimbor never been exceedingly lofty amongst his kin, but these days, there were few left who rivaled his height.

Annatar still had to tilt Celebrimbor’s chin up to look him in the eye when he stood immediately before him. His hand was hot where it touched the curve of Celebrimbor’s jawline, like the kiss of hot forge air. Celebrimbor might have imagined sparks flying up at the contact, like the ones around the head of a hammer on impact.

“Iron can be fair too,” Annatar reassured as he stepped away, “when it is worked properly.”

It was only when Celebrimbor let out his breath that he recognized he had been holding it. It came out staggering, audible. “We should hurry back,” he said, forcing himself to resume his steps. “Íramaenas is difficult when he is left unsupervised for too long.”

* * *

By the evening, Celebrimbor had wanted nothing more than to start work on his project. But there were lingering matters of business that would prevent him from focusing with a clear mind—namely trade accounting with Hadhodrond, pages and pages, documenting food sent to the dwarves from the elven farms and the carts full of metal ingots brought up from the depths of the mountain.

He’d thought he’d escaped having a stern lecture from Celeborn about the incident at the gates a few weeks previous, but the Sinda’s memory was not so fickle—especially not when it came to perceived insults. Still, if ever there was a time to be interrupted, this was at least one of the few situations where Celebrimbor didn’t mind, even if it constituted a further delay for sketching his ideas.

“Lord Celeborn asked me to find you,” Nimmeril said, hanging her head in apology as she stood before Celebrimbor’s writing desk. “He said you will know why.”

Unfortunately so; it would likely be about the dwarves, though maybe with some form of added guilt-tripping in regards to Annatar. Perhaps Celeborn thought he would be able to make Celebrimbor feel as if he owed something to him? Yet going into a conversation armed with a list of potential challenges was something Curufin Fëanorion would have done, and so Celebrimbor made an effort to stop dwelling on the problem before he heard it directly from Celeborn.

“Nimmeril, are you courting anyone?” he asked instead.

Her eyes widened; he wondered how upset he should feel that it looked a little like fear. “My lord…! N-no.”

There was a simple pendant on a chain sitting on his desk, and he picked it up, then offered it with an open palm to Nimmeril. It might have been a little unfair to pass her something that Annatar had critiqued a few days ago (granted, he hadn’t said anything in words; he’d simply raised one elegant brow, as was his way, and then moved on, but that spoke just as clearly), but Celebrimbor liked the lily-of-the-valley design enough that he feared it meeting the same fate as the ring on their first morning together. Passing it off to someone unaffiliated with the Gwaith-i-Mírdain gave it a stronger hope of survival.

“Give this to someone you fancy,” Celebrimbor told her. “There’s nothing magical about it, but I hope it can still inspire some courage for you to speak to someone who catches your eye.”

“My lord, thank you, I…”

“You deserve it,” Celebrimbor told her, “for dutifully carrying all of Lord Celeborn’s nonsense around the city. Don’t look so shocked; you’ve heard me say worse.”

* * *

Celeborn preferred to meet under the cover of trees. Ost-in-Edhil therefore put him at a disadvantage, because the trees willing to plant their roots at the crest of the ridge on which the city was built were sparse and rangy, not the types of leafy giants that would bathe the ground beneath them in a verdant glow. But the prince had made an effort in his garden, and the last of the white holly flowers coincided with the first blooms of Celeborn’s lilac trees to a tranquil effect, especially under the silver light of the moon. As Celebrimbor approached and bowed, it was with a cloud of pale petals swirling around his feet.

“The gatekeeper has raised the possibility of resigning,” Celeborn said airily as he idly inspected the trunk of one of his lilacs; it was almost certainly a lie. “I wanted to ask you before anyone else whether it is a position you would like to take up, since you seem to have so much interest in who and what is allowed inside of my city. Or perhaps you think we should abandon the gates altogether? Leave them wide open and unattended for anyone to come and go as they please, bringing any manner of dangerous things with them and leaving again with whatever spoils please them?”

“Since you mention it…” It was hard not to laugh out loud at Celeborn’s indignation. “I have often considered that the gates should better be left open. For all your fretting, we have not had a single instance of theft carried about by the hadhodrim. And the goblins are too stunted and miserable to make it more than a few paces outside of their holes, much less all the way down the Sirannon Vale, so there is little need to keep them barred for that purpose. Now, did you really summon me here to find a compromise on how to handle the gate?”

“I did not,” Celeborn snapped. “I summoned you here to tell you to know your place, because within a single week, you openly and publicly defied me twice. You have a position of influence here because I permitted you and your people to stay in my city; I imagined that it would inspire you to act as an exemplar to them, but day after day you prove me wrong.”

“Loyalty was never my greatest virtue,” Celebrimbor said with a shrug of his shoulders. The way the holly faded while the lilacs rose—could he use that somehow? His mind already itched to return to the comfort and serenity of his crafts. “You would not be the first one I refuse to show it to. Do not take it personally.”

Celeborn’s expression wrote itself into distaste. “And yet you have such staunch followers behind you. Do they know how openly you admit to faithlessness?”

Yes; Celebrimbor figured they did. He made no secret of proclaiming his independence, and encouraged others to exercise theirs as well, which Celeborn would probably find seditious if they discussed it. “What would you like? An apology? I am not sorry for letting either the dwarves or Annatar stay in our guest houses. That is why we have guest houses in the first place.”

“I find fault not with the naugrim’s presence,” Celeborn said, yet another statement that rang of dishonesty, “but with the fact that you interrupted the proceedings of the guards that I have posted for a reason. You handle affairs of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain; I handle affairs of the city. If you take issue with our trade policies, then we have councils to address that.”

Celebrimbor inclined his head so far that it became a half-bow, though it was mostly to hide how hard he was biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from making an unnecessary comment. After a moment, though, he straightened, and moved to clasp his hands politely behind his back. “I understand; I will bring a list to the next council, as you suggest. May I borrow a branch of one of your lilacs?”

Celeborn stared until his lip finally curled in disgust. “You may not, nor am I finished speaking. Sit down; you will go when I dismiss you, and not before.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fanon nickname of "Tyelpë" for Celebrimbor haunts me because it's the equivalent of elves just calling him "silver." Plus, to match the pattern of the Sons of Fëanor's nicknames, it should technically be rendered "Tyelpo" and ... that's not cute so that's why no one uses it, I think. Anyway, I've given him Tyelperinkë instead (not least to match his dad's Atarinkë) with the loose translation of "little one made of silver." 
> 
> Notes aside, thank you to everyone who's read and commented so far--this is my first multichapter fic so I appreciate all the feedback!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Celebrimbor arbitrates a fight.

_andanéya._

Huan was always animated when he dozed. His chest rose and fell as he took deep breaths, and his exhales were loud; his giant grey paws twitched as he dreamt, nails scraping across the stone floor as he pursued imaginary hares and foxes.

As Celebrimbor curled up next to the hound, nestled just behind his outstretched forelegs, he felt it was a little like being tossed around in a small boat during a windstorm—although here the movement was comforting rather than terrifying. At some point, Celebrimbor realized his own inhales and exhales had even matched pace with Huan’s, and while that alone hadn’t calmed his temper, it had certainly helped take the edge off of it.

He had Huan to thank for the fact that he had not actually spilled tears, either, although he had nearly done so earlier. The dog had come to him in his room and nudged his hand with his shaggy grey head before placing his chin in Celebrimbor’s lap, looking up with his pleading brown eyes and swishing his tail back and forth until Celebrimbor agreed to scratch behind his ears.

When Celebrimbor had hurried away from the crafting hall after disposing of the pieces of shattered crystal and burnt paper, he had thought that he needed to be alone—he’d wondered how plausible it would be to slip out of the main gates and climb a tree so he could escape his father’s biting comments, but he’d accepted that such rash behavior would probably end in disaster. It would only take one troop of orcs lurking in the undergrowth as they tried to root out secrets for their master, and then he’d end up like his eldest uncle, and no matter how bitter the quarrel it was not worth that kind of torment.

So instead, Celebrimbor had taken Huan and a random book off the shelf, and retreated to a distant and largely unused corridor in the palace of Nargothrond. The lantern light was hardly enough to read by, but he was only making a lazy attempt at it to begin with.

Mind, he hadn’t expected to have to explain that choice of reading, because he had not wanted to be found. But by the time he heard the sound of footsteps approaching, heeled shoes clicking against the stone tiling, it was too late to stand up and flee without being seen. Whoever it was would notice him, and probably laugh at him for it. He tensed up, but Huan’s reaction was brighter—the dog lifted his head suddenly, whined, and wagged his tail so hard that it thumped audibly against the ground.

That excitement, along with the head of fair hair illuminated by the lamps as they came into view, would have suggested Celegorm as the intruder. His uncle wouldn’t have been as unwelcome a sight as his father at the moment, but Celebrimbor doubted he’d come looking for him unless it was at Curufin’s directive, which would have considerably tainted his presence.

It was not Celegorm, though. 

“Tyelperinkë?” Finrod drew to a halt a few paces away; the surprise in his voice indicated that he had not come this way specifically looking for Celebrimbor, which was a relief. “I could barely see you—I saw Huan first and I came to say hello. But it is nice to see you here too, my friend.”

“He’s keeping me company.” Celebrimbor peered up at his cousin.

Behind closed doors, Curufin was critical of Finrod, although not necessarily more than he was critical of anyone else—Fingolfin and his sons were expected targets of scorn, but not even Maedhros was safe when Curufin was in a mood (which was more often than not, lately). To be fair, he did give praise, too, when it was due. But every time Celebrimbor found himself within Finrod’s presence, he found himself wondering what his father saw to dislike. Finrod was handsome, laughed often over small joys, and thought no person or creature was too insignificant to show kindness to. For all the praise showered on him, he never showed arrogance, either.

If there was one complaint to make, it was that he doted most on Finduilas, but she never protested that Celegorm paid more attention to Celebrimbor. They each had an uncle to dote on them, and while Finrod might have been generally more liked by most people, Celegorm had the best dog in Arda at his side.

Finrod drifted closer in his emerald green robes, kneeling to the side of Huan’s head so he could scratch behind the hound’s ears. But he extended a curious glance towards the book in the younger elf’s hands, now that he was close enough to see it. “Is that my book of songs for the harp?”

Celebrimbor had not known it was Finrod’s—he had really taken one at random, and he wondered what Finrod’s book was doing amongst his father’s collection in the first place. “I did not know it was yours. I am sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” Finrod’s expression softened. “I did not know you played.”

“I do not. I can sing well enough, but…” Celebrimbor’s voice trailed off. He’d wanted something he wouldn’t normally read—something he’d either need to force himself to pay attention to, or simply not feel bad about glossing over. Something to think about other than how angry his father had been over the accident in the forge.

Finrod laughed as he smoothed the hair on top of Huan’s head. “You should not have to secret away a songbook and hide in the dark, if you think you want to learn about the harp. Sometime when we have more peaceful days, I’ll teach you, if you would like; I couldn’t compare to your uncle, of course, but I am here with you, which gives me a little advantage. What do you say?”

It was hard to refuse an offer when Finrod looked so earnest, and so Celebrimbor blurted out a “yes” before he had time to consider whether that might aggravate Curufin, and whether that was worth a struggle when he really hadn’t much interest.

* * *

Not that it ultimately mattered. Finrod had died before he had made good on his offer.

* * *

It was no surprise that the memory had struck him now; the recollections often did when he heard the distant sound of harp music. Someone was practicing in a nearby building—they had a sweet voice, though the melody was a little sad.

Petal by petal, Celebrimbor had started to carve wax for the molds. It was slow, careful work to copy the blossoms, and he felt a little guilty that he’d needed to raid the gardens more than once to verify the shape, the balance that his sketches did not convey. But little by little, his craft was starting to take form, and seeing it move from page to physical shape was encouraging.

Annatar had been spending more time lately with the other Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and while Celebrimbor had found—somewhat to his embarrassment—that he missed the Maia’s presence, he could at least say that he was pleased that the others had taken to his guest, too. Some had already started to show improvements in their work, although none had undertaken anything especially ambitious in the last few weeks since his arrival.

There would be time for that, however. Just as Celebrimbor taught his students the importance of mastering the basics before advancing to more artful techniques, Annatar also seemed willing to refine existing skills before teaching anything new.

But he was almost certainly holding back the greatest of his teaching for some point in the future when everyone had refined and enhanced their current abilities—Celebrimbor included, if not of chief concern to the Maia.

Celebrimbor had finished one wax likeness and was beginning to shape the next when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. When he looked up, it was to see Taerhethil at the door, dark hair braided over his shoulder and an equally dark expression on his face. Usually that did not bode well—he controlled his temper well, so when it broke, there was usually good cause behind it.

“Your student is causing trouble again,” he said, unimpressed, with his arms folded in front of his chest.

Celebrimbor gently set down his tools, and the lump of wax. “With who? Where?”

“I think you had better come and talk to them.”

By the time Celebrimbor reached the plaza, the arguing parties had been separated. Even from a glance, he was disappointed to see the way the sides had split—on one side, the grey garments and ash brown hair of Celeborn’s Sindar, and on the other, jewel tones and black hair of the Noldor.

He did not have to see the face of the young elf being restrained by his Noldorin friends to know who was responsible, though he stole a glance towards him nonetheless to confirm the suspicion that had arisen from the moment Taerhethil announced the problem. Black hair escaping its plaits, redness in his cheeks, and hands curled into fists … it was probably the way Morifinwë had looked in his youth to give him the name _Carnistir_ , though of course Íramaenas carried no Fëanorian blood.

“What happened here?” Celebrimbor asked as he drew up to the scene.

“He said you were—”

“He tried to harm—”

“One at a time. You—I am sorry. I do not know your name.” Celebrimbor addressed the Sinda first, a gesture of goodwill lest someone accuse him of stepping in and taking the side of his student out of bias. He could hear Íramaenas make a sound of protest behind him, but it shouldn’t have been unexpected to the younger elf; this was not the first time he was being scolded.

The Sinda inclined his head, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously. “Alagos, my lord. I… I expressed an opinion that Íramaenas did not like. But rather than debating with me, he grabbed me by the throat and pushed me.”

“You shouldn’t have said it!” Íramaenas spat. “My lord, he was _insulting_ you because he knew it would upset me. I was provoked—it’s not my fault.”

“You started it,” Alagos returned, and rolled his eyes.

Celebrimbor sighed, and folded his arms. “I have better things to do than to arbitrate fights like this, and I wish you had not dragged my name into your quarrels, but let me give some advice. Alagos, provoking a fight so you can act the victim is a pitiable thing to do—have a little more pride in yourself next time. But Íramaenas, you should know better than to fall for petty provocations. Threatening one of our own people is _never_ justifiable.”

Alagos narrowed his eyes. “Coming from a Kinslayer…”

Silence washed over the crowd, a wave crashing over the seawall.

The words were intended to hurt, but they were still words, and hurt less than the named act itself had hurt. Celebrimbor might almost have been impressed by the fact that the young elf was brave enough to say it directly to his face. Usually it was whispers, when others did not realize Celebrimbor was close enough to hear.

“Yes,” Celebrimbor said quietly. “I think I was around your age at the time, if you adjust for how we counted. You may ask Lady Galadriel for more details, if you would like. Now, will you two apologize to one another or not? I cannot stand here all day and wait for you two to cooperate.”

Alagos at least looked somewhat guilty for his outburst; but he did apologize, and Íramaenas stiffly followed suit before the groups dissolved around them, whispering as they went.

“Íro, stay here,” Celebrimbor ordered before his student could slink away with his friends.

Íramaenas’ posture had deflated, and he affected a small, pitiful bow in Celebrimbor’s direction. “My lord, I really am sorry. But I couldn’t let him say what he was saying.”

“There are many people in this city who would do better to learn that I am not offended by the names they call me,” Celebrimbor answered. Not to say that he did not feel remorseful or sorrowful; Alqualondë was among his foremost unhappiest memories, part of a list that was by no means short. But he’d lived with the sorrow for longer than most of the city’s residents had been alive, and dredging it up wouldn’t in itself reopen the wound and make it bleed again.

“It wasn’t about that at first,” Íramaenas clarified, shaking his head. “He had been saying things about you and Annatar. That you were seduced and blinded by beauty and had probably lost your mind.”

Celebrimbor had to laugh. “And you thought such a statement was worth choking him over?”

“… it sounded worse the way he said it.” Íramaenas sniffed. “He was less eloquent about it, and more detailed, if you know what I mean. I don’t wish to repeat it to you. And besides—he is insufferable anyway.”

Well, that at least resonated.

“I understand how you feel, because I know someone like that myself,” Celebrimbor admitted, making sure to drop his voice in case anyone was close enough to overhear. “But I have never resorted to threatening him, nor will I ever do so. I won’t lecture you here, but it seems to me that you may have been neglecting your histories; you and I must be extra careful not to lose our tempers. Do you not understand why?”

“Why shouldn’t they be extra careful not to speak poorly of us?” Íramaenas countered.

Because the damage had already been done long before Íramaenas was born, and the Firstborn dwelt in memories, many of which were unhappy ones. Celebrimbor sighed. “You cannot control what others do, any more than they can control what you do. Be glad of it—it is what separates all of us from the goblins in the mountains and the orcs who still go wandering witless in the north. But Íro… will you make a promise to me?”

The younger elf looked skeptical, and his lips tightened into a hard line.

“No more fights. No more disputes. Pour that passion into your craft instead, and if anger or irritability drives you, you will find no judgement from me.”

* * *

The exhaustion hit him later, when he returned to his home with his arms full of lumps of wax and papers clutched precariously in his hands. Everything fell into an unceremonious pile onto the desk as he busied himself lighting the lamps around his study, and the flurry of motivation lasted for a few minutes after he took his seat. He straightened the papers, moved the wax off to the side of the table save for the latest piece he had been working on …

He didn’t know how long he had been idly turning it between his fingers, lost in thought while a distant hymn to Elbereth wove its way through the open window, until the door slid open and Annatar slid in. In a garment of ruby-hued diamond weave, the effect was serpentine.

That effect would have been more detrimental if Celebrimbor had not found snakes to be tragically misunderstood creatures. Their kin might have been dragons, but the poor legless cousins liked to sun themselves on garden paths and did their part to keep vermin out of the food stores just like the cats did. Generations of mistreatment had made them terribly shy, moreover… which was perhaps where their similarity with Annatar ended.

Slowly, Celebrimbor angled his head, realizing his eyes had been fixated on a nonspecific point on the bookshelf. “Annatar. Why are you in my home?”

“You left your tools behind.” Annatar raised his hand and opened his palm, revealing a knife and file.

As if there were no spares in Celebrimbor’s personal workshop. Annatar should have known, for all the times he had allowed himself in here uninvited. Not that Celebrimbor particularly minded—he had nothing to hide, and the Maia never left anything in disarray, even putting back the books he had borrowed into their exact place on the shelf (which was more care than Celebrimbor usually gave to the books himself, in fact). 

The spare set of tools easily being within arms’ reach had not manifested into the tools being set on the worktable, though, and the wax still sat in the same unshaped blocks as it had done in the communal crafting hall where Celebrimbor had been working before.

“What is troubling you?” Annatar drifted close enough to set the knife and file next to Celebrimbor’s hand, which he then gently nudged with his own.

The contact, however brief, was grounding. Celebrimbor took a deep breath and slid his hands forward so he could grip the edge of the desk, then stretched out his legs in front of him and tipped the chair backwards, letting his head fall back over the top rail. The relief on his neck was nice; the twin burdens of keeping his head proudly lifted and leaning over to focus on his craft each wrought their own havoc in the course of a day.

“Where would you like me to start?” he asked after the new position also grew uncomfortable, and he tipped the chair forward again. His hands unclenched, and now he let his elbows drop to the surface of the work desk, hands propping up his weary head. “Ah, no. I shouldn’t. You are here to teach me, not to listen to me complain about things that are beyond my control.”

“Hmm.” Celebrimbor couldn’t see it from his current position, but he could imagine the way the thoughtful sound would be accompanied by a raised eyebrow, and the golden gaze flickering from side to side. “I think that you control more than you think, and your consistent willingness to underestimate yourself is your greatest enemy. But you do not have to tell me anything, if you do not want to. You have other confidantes, yes?”

Celebrimbor hummed, which was neither agreement nor disagreement.

Sometimes he talked to Galadriel. She understood some things that no one else in the city—no one else in the _East_ —could, a particular sorrow shared between last of kin. But she put her family first, and he feared he was little more than extra baggage on the road to her. Taerhethil would listen at times when Celebrimbor felt the absence of his uncles like a ragged hole cut into his chest, but he kept his own emotions so closely guarded that he never seemed to know the right words when talking to others. Their conversations usually ended as quickly as a weighty stone sank to the bottom of a lake.

In one of the books on the shelf—Celebrimbor could see it from here, with the embossed golden title on the spine—there was a family tree of the House of Finwë amongst the noble genealogies of the Noldor. Four of the five main branches bore continuations, although lack of communication with the West meant that no one could say for certain how many descendants Lalwen and Findis now had. But the first branch simply ended with one final son, and there had been no need to try and continue it on another page.

_The last,_ it might have been footnoted, just to drive the point home. _Alone, end._

“I am afraid if I talk about everything that makes me sad, I will send my friends running in disgust, or embarrassment,” he admitted, which was really only the surface of them problem but still felt daring to say out loud. Better that others see him as unflinching as the stonework in Ost-in-Edhil, he had always felt.

“Then they would not be true friends.” Annatar had not moved from his position near to Celebrimbor’s desk, but he bridged the space with a step closer so he could brush the elf’s dark hair over one of his shoulders in careful, smooth strokes. Feather-light touches glanced past the high collar of Celebrimbor’s robe, and despite the heat of the Maia’s skin, it sent a shiver skittering across his skin.

“Says the one who will abandon the whole city if my craft fails to impress.”

Annatar’s fingers stilled, poised at the back of Celebrimbor’s neck. “Will I? I might simply assign another task and hope for better results; it would have to be a spectacular failure to make my expectations come down from their high. Maybe you can take heart from this: I have watched you at your craft thus far, and I have not regretted my choice once.”

Celebrimbor closed his eyes, and thought of the melted ring in his courtyard. “Now you are just flattering. This is why I do not like to talk about my troubles.”

“I told you I would give praise when it was deserved.” Annatar’s fingers resumed their pattern, tracing down a stitched seam towards Celebrimbor’s shoulder. “If I wanted to flatter, I would say that your skill has never been seen before in Arda, that women should be throwing themselves at your feet and your likeness should be carved into every block of marble for the world to admire. Look! Even the wax on your desk is cut so neatly. Your tools, customized to perfection—”

“Enough.” Celebrimbor found he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop a smile from escaping its way onto his face, despite his present sourness. Annatar’s sense of humor was skewed, and often missed the mark in both timing and delivery, but there was something inherently funny about the fact that he made the effort in the first place. “I understand. I’ve also just remembered I forgot something in the crafting hall. My leather-bound journal—will you go get it for me?”

“I am not your servant.” Annatar finally withdrew his hand, though now the space felt empty and cold without it. “But if you promise I will return to find you working again rather than pitying yourself in a heap at your desk like a spurned lover, then I suppose I can fetch it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huan, the ultimate good boy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Celebrimbor completes his work.

It was shortly before sunrise when Celebrimbor set the final gem into the crown of flowers.

According to the lingering moonlight, the mithril petals were still open in bloom, the leaves outstretched and languid. The inset crystals, approximating anthers and drops of dew, reflected the silver light, sparkling in their clusters in a pleasing way as Celebrimbor turned the piece from side to side in careful examination. Examination—and appreciation. It was finally done, after many hours of labor, and it was beautiful enough for him to think that he would be doing the piece a disservice by setting it on his own head.

But the approaching dawn was also cause for anxiety. When the sunlight finally broke over the peaks of Hithaeglir and touched the work of mithril and crystal, he’d see whether the metal leaves and petals worked in tandem with one another. He’d see if the careful enchantments he’d placed held true and made harmony rather than discord.

He had tested the individual pieces of the crown already, of course. Each flower cupped in the palm of his hand as he stood in the courtyards and white marble streets at dawn and at twilight, those hours that were reminiscent of the mingling of the Trees. When Anor set and Ithil alone hung in the sky, the petals would unfurl, but the red glow of the morning made them close once again so that the leaves and ferns woven around them became more prominent.

It was not like the living gardens. But leaves of gold and mithril would not wither and fall. The crystals would not dry up under the midday sun like the dew.

The question as to whether or not he should immediately seek out Annatar and present the finished work answered itself, however, as he heard a greeting in one of the corridors, and an elf calling the Maia’s name. There were other jewelsmiths lingering about at this time, some wishing to get an early start and some who simply preferred to live and work under the stars. But Annatar must have known of Celebrimbor’s progress, and calculated when to arrive.

In fact, his timing could not have been more perfect. There was symmetry in the way he stepped in from the end of the corridor, draped in silk the color of persimmons and accentuated with gold and citrine, and the sun peeking above the mountains in a fiery halo.

When Celebrimbor held up the crown to present it to his tutor, the petals folded themselves away and retreated back into their budded form, as if they were shy of the judgement they were about to face.

The Maia said nothing as he picked up the crown with careful fingers. They were always warm, like the embers of a fire, and Celebrimbor had not forgotten the way he had melted gold in the palm of his hand with no more effort than it took him to blink his long eyelashes—but the crown did not disintegrate in his hands.

“You will have to see it after twilight, too,” Celebrimbor began to explain, already dreading what criticism he might receive.

“It is alright.” Annatar eyed him speculatively. “I can feel the magic in it. I know what you have asked it to do.”

“I like the flowers that open at dusk,” Celebrimbor replied faintly. “I would have recreated the fragrance, if I could…”

“It is alright,” Annatar repeated, but this time it was accompanied by a fond little smile. “It is alright. You have done well, Tyelperinkë. Will you try it on?”

Celebrimbor hesitated.

It was not just because of lingering misgivings about his appearance, although he knew he looked nowhere near to his best at the moment. Over his rough silk shirt, he’d worn a robe of blended wool gifted to him by the hadhodrim, colored in rich earth tones and geometric patterns, and that in turn was covered by a leather apron, which cinched around his waist. Tools still poked out of the pockets. And once again, his dark brown hair had been variously bound away from his face in stages, culminating in something that was neither wholly plait nor ponytail.

Sometimes when he worked late, shadows would appear under his eyes, too, and he’d had little rest for the last two days, intent on finishing his work once the end was within reach.

But putting on a crown bore other implications that he was well aware of. He had not designed the piece thinking of himself—in fact, he almost never imagined a specific bearer for his jewels, the exception being commissioned works or gifts for Ereinion. He had deemed the wreath-shape the best way to display the blossoms, but at no point had it been conceptualized as a specific leader’s crown…

Putting it on somehow felt like he would be declaring it as such.

“Or,” Annatar said, and his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as a conspiratorial look crept into his eye. “Will you have Lord Celeborn wear it?”

“No,” Celebrimbor snapped, refusing to entertain the idea of it sitting on his silver head. “It is not for him. He can make his own, if he wishes to wear something like it.”

“Then you ought to wear it yourself,” Annatar concluded. “Step closer. I will arrange it.”

There was still some reluctance in his step, but Celebrimbor did as he was asked.

He had attended, in his lifetime, three coronations, though he had watched crowns change hands more often than that. The first had been Fingolfin’s, and it was only through the insistence of Maedhros that the rest of Fëanor’s family stayed for it. Then the unthinkable had happened, and Celebrimbor had been the sole representative of his family to watch Orodreth take up the crown of Nargothrond. Ereinion Gil-galad’s ascendancy in Lindon had been the last, and Celebrimbor hoped that would be the end of it.

This, of course, was no ceremony, but Annatar still eased the crown over his head as if it was. There was no music or applause, but someone had started to beat against an anvil, and a chorus of sparrows had taken up outside to celebrate the sunrise. If Celebrimbor strained his ears, he might have even caught the gurgle of a fountain to cheer him on.

“Now you truly look like a scion of Fëanor,” Annatar appraised as he stepped back. “Show it off, and then I think you ought to rest. I think you are ready for a lesson.”

* * *

In midwinter, when the daylight hours were short and grey and night fell long and heavy over the plains, the Gwaith-i-Mírdain held the grandest of their celebrations.

The great hall had been decorated with fluttering banners in red and green, rich jewel tones to complement the boughs of berry-studded holly that had been brought in from the cold. A variety of lamps and lanterns filled the space—some were flickering orange flames behind colorful glass, while others were the pulsing blue glow of Fëanorian lamps, made by the elite of the crafting guild. This year they had new names to add to that list, but perhaps none of them were prouder than Íramaenas. Celebrimbor had spotted him leading Midhluin around by the hand and pointing out the ones he had made himself as they had readied the hall for the celebration.

Snow had started to fall not long after dark, and Celebrimbor took his time to walk from his home to the top of the hill so he could admire the way the snowflakes shimmered as they fell. For now, this might have been as close as he could get to the diamond-dust in the streets of Tirion—it was fleeting, but the wreath of mithril flowers he wore tonight was a reminder that such flaws could be addressed with the right application of his skill.

He had the mithril crown with its petals open and basking in the moonlight, and wore silver-hued satin stitched through and accented with thread-of-silver embroidery. When he had first tried the garment on, it had looked uncomfortably close to Celeborn’s favorite greys, but it reflected better under the light of Ithil, and was offset better by his dark hair. Silver was part of Celebrimbor’s name too, in any case; tonight was one of the few nights where he permitted himself to draw attention to the _epessë_ with rings gracing all his fingers.

The snowflakes were starting to stick to his hair, he noticed.

He was also lingering while he walked because the ceremony would not be without a certain sadness this year. Though the celebration was always hosted by the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Galadriel attended each year as their honored guest and patron. She would pay her respects to the hadhodrim and the apprentices, and could often be persuaded to sing before the night ended; she’d be radiant with her gold-and-silver hair and white dress, especially when she laughed.

Winter was the worst time travel, but a fortnight ago she had come to Celebrimbor to explain that she had Celebrían would be going east of the mountains—they would go by way of Hadhodrond so there could be no delays from sudden snowstorms. She had seemed sad when she announced it, though, for a reason Celebrimbor could not decipher, and at her farewell some of her melancholy seemed to have seeped into him too.

There was medicine for that, though, and he was reminded of it as he reached the crest of the hill. Outside the crafting hall, a few dwarves were gathered, exchanging pipe weed amongst themselves, and they threw up a shout in greeting as Celebrimbor climbed the marble stairs. A quick glance around revealed an elven maid, too—his student, Melaras, her chestnut hair tucked behind her leaf-shaped ear with the aid of a pretty pearl-encrusted comb.

She also wore a pendant around her neck in the shape of a lily-of-the-valley, which Celebrimbor idly recognized as his own craft from a few months ago. Had he given it to someone else?

“You should come inside where it is warmer,” he chided, steps drawing to a halt.

“I will!” Melaras’ cheeks were tinted pink, but that was likely from the winter air more than any sense of embarrassment, even if she was usually timid. “I am just waiting for someone, my lord. Thank you.”

Celebrimbor had barely made it a few paces within the hall when he was intercepted by his golden counterpart. Someone was going to make a joke about his silver next to Annatar’s gold, he was certain—the fruit of Telperion and the flower of Laurelin side by side again, they’d say, and he’d be obliged to laugh politely.

“Take this,” Annatar insisted, and passed a crystal goblet into Celebrimbor’s hands. It gave off a sweet, spicy aroma, indicating it had been mixed with syrup and mulling spices, and it was warm to the touch.

“Already?” Celebrimbor raised his eyebrows and gave an exaggerated exhale, then took a sip, swirling the liquid around the inside of his mouth. “Where is yours, Annatar?”

“That _was_ mine,” Annatar explained. “It was too sweet for me, but I know it will fare better in your hands. And it may warm them up as well.”

It did feel pleasant to cradle the crystal in his hand, though Celebrimbor was not ungrateful for the wine anyway. There would be a great deal more of it pressed into his hands before the night was over, at any rate, knowing the way these events tended to progress.

“There is a dwarf named Rúna who wants to speak with you,” Annatar continued. “Dúrin would also like to consult with you about the speech he intends to give, and he said to come and find him—he is rehearsing in the library. There have also been two betrothals announced since we open the doors, so your congratulations will be in order.”

Celebrimbor took two more sips of wine, larger this time, in succession. “Busy as usual. If you see Rúna again, tell her I have left for Lindon on urgent business. Who are the betrothed parties? I should know whether I ought to bring them some wine along with my condolences.” 

* * *

If someone had called Celebrimbor’s chair a throne, he would have been upset.

It was one of the finer pieces of woodworking that could be readily found within the crafting halls and libraries, though Celebrimbor was admittedly debasing it at the moment by having his knees cast over the carved armrest as he sat sideways. He was also trying to balance both a goblet full of sweet dessert wine and an ornately decorated metal flagon filled with dwarven ale, which was supposed to be temporary—but Njal hadn’t come back to take his flagon yet, so he had clearly either forgotten, or he was fraternizing.

Point was, the chair had been set up at the end of the hall so that someone could play master of ceremonies. It offered a nice vantage point of the whole room, at least, and Celebrimbor felt a swell of pride as he looked over the gathered audiences, the Noldor and Sindar mingling with the hadhodrim and sharing conversation and food and dances.

As he contemplated taking matters into his own hands and getting up to go find Njal so he could be rid of the extra drink, his gaze happened to flicker towards the open doors, where a shadowy grey figure stood outlined like a ghost.

Celebrimbor’s gaze snapped into focus, and he could make out a neutral, unreadable expression there on Lord Celeborn’s face. He did note that the other elf was simply attired; a grey cloak, and a plain silver circlet. Aside from it, only a single leaf-patterned brooch distinguished him. But jewels alone couldn’t distinguish a Lord from his subjects in Ost-in-Edhil, where everyone proudly wore the results of their labors in the halls and forges.

Across the expanse of the room, their eyes met, and Celeborn held the stare, unblinking.

He might have been taking in the chair that was not a throne, and the crown that was not a crown, and the glittering silver garment whose sashes and ribbons trailed to the floor around Celebrimbor. He might have looked over the heads of the hadhodrim and smelled the scent of ale mingling alongside the wine’s fragrant mulling spices and resented it. He might have felt lonely in midwinter while his wife and daughter chased the sunrise in the East, left to rule a city where he held little favor, knowing an emissary of the West had looked him over and celebrated his rival instead.

He might have known that he held his title only because Celebrimbor’s ambitions lay elsewhere.

It was Celebrimbor that broke his gaze first, looking around to see if one of the servants was nearby with extra glasses of wine. No such luck, but he could improvise.

“Limhiril?”

The younger elf was standing nearby, and she gave a half-bow of acknowledgement to Celebrimbor as he gingerly swung his legs around and off the chair. “Yes, my lord?”

“Will you go take a glass of wine to Lord Celeborn and invite him in? The Lord of Eregion deserves a place at our feast.”

Limhiril regarded him for a long moment, and looked as if she had some protest she wished to make. But she held her tongue, if it was the case. “As you wish. Shall I give a message from you?”

“No need.” Celebrimbor shook his head. “It’s alright. We have an understanding, he and I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. One more big thank you to everyone who read and subscribed, I really appreciated all the comments and kudos along the way!


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